Colors of Grief
by TsumetaiYuuki
Summary: It shouldn't be -him-.  It just couldn't be. And even if he knew perfectly well that this world was not fair, he couldn't help but curse it with every breath for -his- suffering, feel like this was his penance for tainting -his- purity. Oneshot. Yaoi.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, and I make no profit out of this.**

**Warning: Hints of yaoi – not explicit, but there. Depressive themes. **

**Summary: It shouldn't be **_him_**. It just couldn't be so. And even if he knew perfectly well that this world was not fair, he couldn't help but curse it with every painful breath for **_his_ **suffering. And feel that this was his penance for tainting **_his_** purity with his dirty, bloodstained hands. One-shot. Yaoi.**

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**Colors of Grief**

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**Three hundred sixty-five days. Grey.**

He had nothing to say – his world was coming up blank. It was like everything and anything had faded away, and all he could feel was the cool numbing grey fog that enveloped his every living moment. It was painful; even though he was not typically an emotional person, the numbness that seemed to spread to everything he touched or that touched him was … agony.

And yet he did not know how to run away from this mist like he did any other. He could not attack it. He could not even properly defend himself from it. Blowing it away was out of the question. For there was no way to abandon _him_.

**Two hundred and eighty days. Orange.**

This couldn't be happening. Not to _him_. If it was to himself he would understand, for every second he lived was coated in sin, bathed in the black of his faults, his mistakes.

But to _him_ ... _he_ who was always pure, even when blood stained _him_. _He_ who seemed to rise above all with his clear heart and blindingly white soul, kindness and love and pure _goodness_ radiated from every part, every cell, every single molecule of _him_. Who even in _his_ anger was fair, who even in _his _teasing loved.

He did not understand. Could not, would not. He had learned long ago that the world was unfair, but he didn't believe that this … this burden could be placed upon _him_. It was not _his_ fault. It was not, and it would never be.

But it just wasn't _fair_. Despite his wishes, the days rolled on. And though _he _seemed absolutely fine ... he knew otherwise.

It was only a matter of time before …

Dammit, it wasn't FAIR! And though he knew, deep in his rational heart, that it was coincidence, painful coincidence, and that he had nothing to do with it, he wondered if this was his penance for having tainted _his _pureness with his dirty, bloodstained hands.

**One hundred and fifty days. Red.**

Why _him_? Why him of all the people in this world, all those that didn't deserve to live, not like how _he _did? All those cretins out there who wasted the lives given to them, who spent their time hurting others – like him – that did not have the right to take another breath. But _he_ did. _He _who brought – dragged, really – him out of the darkness, who pulled and pushed and didn't give up even when he fought back with every cell of his body. _He_ who shone light into his world, who was his reason for living.

He would gladly give himself for _him_. Give anything. And though he knew it was impossible, in his red haze of anger and pain and more agony inducing, he wondered if _he_ would be fine if he bathed the world in red.

And even as he sank to the floor, trembling in the crimson lifeblood of who knows how many, _he _stumbled over to him, crying and sniffling and hugging him at the same time.

_Everything's going to be okay,_ _he_ claimed. Softly patting the blood-stained locks on his head, _he_ hid a racking cough that he flinched at, all the while still murmuring soothing words.

_But it's not going to be okay!_, he wanted to scream, to yell, to protest to the heavens how _he_, his angel and savior, did not deserve this. He wanted to forget all about this crazed red haze that surrounded everything but _him_, that tainted his world with more pain than he had ever thought possible, even before.

_It will be_, was _his_ firm answer. And even as he sobbed dryly, feeling the blood on his hands, he was soothed by _his_ voice, and eventually fell into a comforting, black sleep.

**Ninety eight days. Green.**

It wasn't okay, he wanted to say to _him_. But he couldn't now. It would be selfish of him to bring more pain, more sadness to the suffering angel that lay on the bed, bearing a weak pallor and shaky hands despite the soothing smile and warm eyes that trailed after him.

He just didn't know what to do anymore. The time was slipping out of his desperate grasp, and there was nothing he could do as the days wore on and _he_ grew weaker, turned paler, and looked to be more and more in pain despite the careful mask placed before him.

Never. Never before had he felt so helpless, even when _they_ dropped one by one in front of him, killed by what he had previously held most dear to him. Even when he was faced with execution before _he_ managed to convince her. Never. And though he would give up anything, everything in his world for just a little more _time_, the very thing he wanted was slipping out of his fingers, falling like a handful of sand through a clumsy hand.

He wanted to be able to do something. Anything to help _him_. He would give up anything, everything! But the world didn't work that way, and he cursed it with every breath that he suffered through.

But his pleas, his begging, and his desperate wishes were left unheard.

**Forty one days. Black.**

He did not want to get up anymore. Even if it was to _his_ face, the small winces and careful fidgeting hidden from him were enough to discourage. Even if it was probably the last of _his_ time, he did not want to see _him_. Not like that.

And so he shut himself away in a carefully constructed box, away from the pain that he couldn't bear on his own shoulders and the wishes that would never come true. He couldn't take it anymore, and that was that. A little more than a month. A little more than a month before his heart, his soul would be lost to him forever.

And as he lay there, all alone for the first time in a long while – for _he_ was always there – he wanted to just give up.

It wasn't until she came, teary and breathless from running here, begging that he come with her, that he managed to push the darkness of himself.

_He_ had injured himself trying to climb out of bed, pleading to go to him so that _he_ could see he was all right. He found it ironic. He wasn't the bedridden and in pain – _not dying, no…_his mind whispered – and yet it was _him_ who tried to do the comforting.

The painful guilt that came along with her evaporated at _his_ joyful tears and seeing him fine – to a certain degree – but hit full force when _he_ pleaded for him not to leave him. Not now.

And as he held the painfully thin, previously lithe, so fragile body to himself, he rested his head on _his_ shoulder, and cried.

**Ten days. Pink.**

The final days were spent with _him_, of course. Every single moment of every day he was at _his_ beck and call, though _he _normally asked for nothing more than for him to stay, even on the worst days. He knew that _he_ smiled through his own haze of pain, comforting him even in _his_ state.

And he wanted to cry – yet again, more so in the last year than he had ever done in all of his life – at the fact that _he_ was still trying to put on a brave face, still trying to cheer him, every action caring for him, every word about him.

And he couldn't take it. With all the sacrifices, all the care that _he_ was giving, he couldn't be selfish. He wouldn't be. He allowed the false peace to envelop him, allowed it to calm him enough to smile back at that gorgeous face, to hug _him_ with no reserve, to touch _his_ face, _his_ hands, and kiss _him_, basking all the while in _his_ weak but sincere smile.

He knew it wasn't real acceptance. Not really. But he allowed it to take him anyways. He would have time to grieve, to rant, to be angry, and to _join him_, afterwards. Now he was to give _him_ what _he_ needed. _His _lover by _his _side, supporting him.

**Two days. Black.**

He couldn't stand to look at the sheets. At the walls, at the room, at everything. Everywhere in the whole village seemed designed to bring him pain, to remind him of what he had lost. Their most prized sanctuary had become his personal hell.

For he had lost _him_. And all the time to prepare for it could not possibly be enough. The one thing worth living for, the one most important thing in his life. The one that supported him, the one that kept him grounded even on the worst of days. And even though he had promised _him_ that he would be okay, that he would be strong …

He couldn't be. Not now. Not ever again.

**Zero. White.**

It had been easy. Easy to slip away. Easy to find what he needed – as a ninja, they were abundant.

So easy. So simple, and yet so relieving – even with the fact that _he_ would bring him back to life and kill him again for even attempting this and break his promise; or rather, not truly meaning it in the first place. And even so, when he slipped in the black that quickly drowned him, he smiled.

For he saw his white amidst the black, pulling him out of his darkness yet again. _Him._

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**Of course. My drabble series is hitting me with plot bunnies that ultimately end up one-shots. Yet again. Ha. Anyways.**

**Kudos to anyone that can actually follow my rather random thought process. In fact, leave me a comment about how you interpret this – the characters – who's he, who's **_**him**_**?, what happened, the bold titles, etc. – and I'll leave you a cookie. Or my thanks. Or brownie points. Or something like that. I would love to hear the thoughts about this though, since I think this one was quite vague, and could be interpreted in various ways. I want to see if any readers actually interpreted it **_**my**_** way…**

**Let me know. I would appreciate any comments. Thank you for reading. **


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